Pilate's Ghost

by J Alexander Greenwood

  “I know. It’s a small consolation, but I’m glad it wasn’t Lindstrom that got him in the end,” Pilate said.

  “Lindstrom didn’t do him any favors,” Kate said. “Reminds me. I heard from Juilie Hulsey at the hospital. She said her husband…”

  “Mike? State trooper Hulsey?”

  “Yes. She heard from him that Deputy Lenny isn’t interested in being interim sheriff again. He may quit. Too much for him. And Welliver isn’t ever going to be sheriff again. He’ll be lucky to fully recover.”

  “Huh. Well, I wonder what they’ll do? Special election?”

  “In six weeks. County commissioners are looking for a replacement to mind the store. Hulsey will be acting as de facto sheriff until then.”

  “Huh,” Pilate said.

  “The funny thing is,” Kate said, smirking, “your name has been bandied about as interim sheriff.”

  Pilate opened his mouth to laugh, but no sound escaped it.

  “I know, right?” Kate laughed quietly.

  “Well, Scovill did say you were sheriff now.”

  “No way in hell,” Pilate said. “I’m going to go back over to see Trevathan tomorrow, okay? Spend some time.”

  “Do whatever you need to, sheriff.” she said. “We’ll be here.”

  Pilate kissed her cheek. “You will, won’t you?”

  Kate looked at him. “Of course.”

  “After everything?”

  “After everything.”

  Pilate put his arm around Kate and Peter. “I want you to know I’ll…”

  “I know.”

  He kissed her again. Kate kissed him back.

  “John?” Kate called from downstairs.

  Ending his shower, Pilate toweled off. He caught a glance in the mirror at his naked body. The sporadic race training had done a little, and the swimming had done a lot, to help keep him trim and ever so slightly muscular, though the scar on his bicep from Lindstrom’s bullet and Taters’s ministrations with a needle wasn’t pretty.

  “Not bad for an old man,” Simon said.

  “Not bad, yeah,” Pilate said aloud. He raised his voice to reply to Kate. “Yeah, babe?”

  “Just got a call from Grif. They just told him they’re processing him out today!”

  “Today?” he exclaimed. “That was quick! I thought it’d be another week.”

  “Well, he’s out today. You want to go pick him up around three?”

  “Sure will,” he said. “We can put him in the guest room. I’ll go see Trevathan later on tonight.”

  It wasn’t as dramatic as the movies. The process moved slowly, tediously and anticlimactically as the machinery of the state reluctantly, and with much double-checking, released its hold on a prisoner. Grif signed a series of papers as Pilate waited in a holding area. Eventually, Grif Nathaniel’s gaunt face poked through the doorway, a guard gently guiding him through the corridor by his left arm. Grif wore the clothes he had worn when he entered prison. Had Pilate seen him on the street he would have thought the old man had lost a lot of weight and needed to sit down.

  The pair embraced, Grif patting Pilate on the back. “Congratulations, Dad.”

  “Thanks, Grandpa.”

  The pair smiled. Pilate helped the old man into an overcoat he brought for him.

  “You ready to go home?”

  Grif nodded. “Heavens, yes. I want to meet my grandson.”

  Driving back from Lincoln, Grif was mostly quiet.

  “You okay, Grif?”

  He snuffled his nose with a handkerchief, nodding.

  “Just so ashamed,” he said, his voice as weak and raspy as Trevathan’s.

  “None of that, Grif. It’s over. “

  “Yes. Yes it is. But my boy’s still dead. My Dad’s dead. Lost my business. Family name ruined.”

  Pilate didn’t know what to say. He looked straight ahead at the blacktop.

  “But,” Grif said, clearing his throat, an index finger held up before his face. “I have my grandchildren. I have a chance to make things right with them.”

  “Grif, they love you no matter what. And so does Kate.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “And for what it’s worth, me too.”

  Grif patted Pilate’s shoulder, his face turned out to the denuded crop fields as they cruised past.

  Once home, Grif endured a solid five minutes of hugs, tears and kisses from Kara and Kate before they installed him in a comfortable chair by the corn stove, infant Peter Pilate in his arms.

  “I’ve waited and wished and wondered,” Grif said, his voice fading like tracks in melting snow.

  “So has he,” Kate said, adjusting the cap on Peter’s head and kissing Grif’s cheek. “So have we.”

  “Mr. Pilate?” the voice was familiar.

  “Yes?” Pilate said, standing in his kitchen.

  “We’re even.”

  “What?”

  “Do you understand me? We are even.”

  “I see…”

  Click.

  Trevathan was asleep. His face drawn and sallow, his skin had taken on a morbid pallor. The odors of sickness permeated the air: urine, antiseptic, latex, and worse.

  The hospice nurse reported he had started the pain medication and slept often. He stopped eating much a few days earlier, but the coughing was under control.

  “He won’t have much energy,” she said. “The pain medication keeps him pretty out of it most of the time. You may not be able to fully wake him.”

  Pilate pulled up a chair next to Trevathan. Glancing at the stack of books on his nightstand, Pilate picked up Stage to Laredo.

  “The old man loved Westerns,” Simon said.

  Loves.

  “Right, loves.”

  Under it was a Bible. Pilate picked it up, then put it back. He read a chapter of the western, glancing up at Trevathan as he occasionally grunted or sighed in his sleep.

  Himself sleep-deprived, Pilate nodded off.

  “Hey,” a whisper. “John. Sleeping on the job.”

  Pilate awoke.

  Trevathan smiled weakly, adjusting his feet under the blanket.

  “Hey,” Pilate said. “Sorry. The baby has kept me up nights.”

  Trevathan nodded. “I understand.”

  “Can I get you something?”

  “Water. Maybe some ice water. Thirsty.”

  Pilate complied, pouring ice water in a large plastic tumbler. He held it while the dying man sipped from a bendy straw.

  “Thanks,” he said. Pilate put the tumbler on the nightstand beside the stack of books and pill bottles.

  “Any word on Mostek?”

  Pilate shook his head. “Nothing. He’s still out there.”

  “No, he’s not,” Trevathan rasped. “He’s dead. They’ll never find the body.”

  “I guess so.”

  “The natives around here have a way of dealing with their own when they get out of step.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  The pair were silent a moment.

  “I, uh,” Pilate said.

  “What?” Trevathan said, his voice sandpapery and ethereal.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said.

  “Criminy John, I don’t want your pity. That’s your problem. Too damn sentimental.”

  Pilate looked at Trevathan, expecting the usual scowl, but the old man’s hard face was soft.

  “Listen, I don’t have much time.”

  Pilate started to protest.

  “And please don’t interrupt. I stopped treatment months ago. This crap is in my lungs and bones. I don’t have but a week or two, tops. And I want you to know something.”

  “What?”

  “I never had a son. But if I had…” his voice caught in his throat.

  “I know,” Pilate said.

  “No, no you don’t,” he said. “I told you not to interrupt. I never had a son. But if I had one like you I would’ve been worn out from delivering ass kickings.”

 
; Pilate laughed. Trevathan put his hand on his chest, trying not to cough.

  “Seriously, John. We had a short run, but damn if we didn’t have some adventures. I thought after the wife died I’d just end up pissing away my time here and in Key West. But you brought a little excitement into this old man’s last days.”

  “It was my pleasure,” Pilate said. “I know I wouldn’t have survived any of it without you.”

  “You got that right,” Trevathan said.

  Trevathan wheezed a few moments, his eyes closed. Pilate put his hand on Trevathan’s and gently squeezed.

  Trevathan’s eyes opened. “Listen, John. I’m gonna need to take some more pain meds in a minute. I suspect I won’t be making much sense after.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want you to have something, when I’m gone. Actually it’s for Kara and Peter, but I want you to take care of it for me until they’re old enough, okay?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “My fishing shack in Key West. I’ve left it to you in my will. It’s not much but it’s on a good spot that’s worth some bucks. But don’t sell it. Save it. Take those kids out on the water. Let ‘em fish,” he coughed again for a moment. “Let ‘em fish and play and be kids. And you just paddle along behind ‘em with that pretty wife of yours, got it?”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Pilate said.

  “Well, it’s either that or you get my glass eye. Which is it?”

  “I’ll take the shack. The eye has always freaked me out.”

  Laughing, Trevathan was wracked by coughing for a protracted moment. Pilate held out his arm to offer support; Trevathan waved him off.

  After he calmed, he signaled for more water, drank and eased back against the mattress. Trevathan looked at the ceiling a moment.

  “Wonder what’s coming.”

  “What’s coming?”

  “I wonder what’s coming next. Where I’m going.”

  “I wish I knew,” Pilate said, feeling inadequate and helpless to comfort him.

  “I’ve had this Sword of Damocles hanging above my head for more than a year and I’ve been too…been too scared to contemplate what comes next. Suppose that’s one reason you’ve been a blessing. I’ve been so worried about your mortality it kept my mind off my mortality.”

  “Well, I’m glad my clumsiness could help.”

  “And your blundering, don’t forget the blundering. But I wonder now. Will I see my beloved again? Or will I have to go somewhere else and deal with a-holes like Lindstrom and Olafson?”

  “No, it’s not going to happen. I know it.”

  “Or will I just turn out like a light?” he coughed gently. “Switch off? Hmm. I have to admit I’ve never been much of a believer in such things, even during the war - ask Buster. Had more faith in him and my buddies than some invisible sky god. You know?”

  Pilate nodded.

  “But I hope Jesus is real. Always admired Him, John. Truly had it all figured out. Decent. Cared. A shame your namesake sentenced him to death.”

  “Governor Pilate had his reasons,” Pilate said, smiling. “But don’t pin that on me. I washed my hands of that family connection years ago.”

  “I hope He’s real. Jesus. What do you think?” Trevathan’s good eye focused on Pilate, beseeching him for affirmation.

  “I think He’s real, yes,” Pilate said, quietly, his eyes darting to the Bible beside the bed. “Perhaps he’s not the Jesus a lot of people seem to think He is, but yeah. Real.”

  “If he is maybe I’ll ask him to let me become a ghost so I can haunt you a while.”

  “No, Peter. You’ll be a spirit.”

  “I like that,” Trevathan said, his eyes closed. “A spirit.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “Don’t the Christmas lights look great on her?” Taters asked, hands on his hips, beaming on the deck of the TenFortyEZ.

  “They do.” Buster said.

  “Yeah, but he made me hang them,” Jordan said, gently poking his ribs. “Old geezer said his back hurt. Whaa.”

  “It was from carrying you to bed, honey,” Taters said, pinching her behind.

  “Vernon!” she said, smacking him. “Not in front of the kids.”

  Taters nodded. “Sorry.”

  “Well, why don’t we get this show on the road?” Buster said, the tail of his Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze. “We have everything? John? Kate? We squared away?”

  “You bet, Buster,” Pilate said, tying a life vest on Kara. “Kate’s below, feeding Pete.”

  “Then here we go,” Taters said, firing up the engines.

  They cruised slowly through the harbor, George Jones, Jimmy Buffett and Van Morrison playing on the sound system. Everyone kept the chat to a minimum as they hit the open water.

  “Almost time,” Pilate said, calling down below to Kate. “Honey, you ready?”

  “Be right there,” she called.

  They turned off the engines and dropped anchor a few miles southwest of Key West.

  The waves were active enough to make the deck pitch, but not enough to make anyone sick.

  Kate carried Peter on deck. He was protected from the late-day sun by a cotton blanket and a toddler-sized fishing hat.

  Pilate produced a small wooden box.

  Everyone gathered around him at the stern.

  “Today we commend the ashes of our dear friend, Peter Trevathan, to that which he loved so much, the sea,” Pilate said, opening the box.

  Pilate took a handful of ashes and scattered them overboard. “He was my friend. We had our ups and downs, but I can honestly say that my wife, our children and I wouldn’t be here without him. We are forever in his debt.”

  The adults took turns scattering a handful of ashes on the blue Gulf waters.

  Taters picked up Kara and put her on his shoulders.

  John Pilate put his arm around Kate, who held Peter.

  Taters opened the cooler and handed everyone a Modelo. He gave Kara a root beer.

  “To Trev,” Buster said, tears flowing into his bushy mustache. “No truer friend.”

  “To Trev,” everyone repeated as an energetic wave made the boat deck dip dramatically.

  “What a ride,” Pilate said, softly.

  They held their beers aloft, watching the horizon as the orange ball slipped beneath the waves. It produced a brief, brilliant green flash before it faded into the Gulf of Mexico.

  THE END

  John Pilate returns in

  PILATE’S BLOOD

  AFTERWORD

  I tried something new with this, the third book in the John Pilate Mystery Series. I created a Kickstarter campaign to raise funds to produce the paperback version and to start a fund to cover recording costs for eventual audio versions. To my great surprise, it worked.

  One of the ways I enticed people to financially back production of the book was by offering perks that went beyond autographed copies. In fact, I offered to name characters in the book after top backers. Interestingly, two men paid for that level of support, but rather than themselves, they chose to name the characters after people they loved.

  My old high school pal R. James Sudik, LP, asked that a character be named for his daughter, Story. She is every bit the smart, talented young lady in real life as is her “Pilate” EMT Explorer alter ego. Bonus: Story is also the daughter of a paramedic! Thanks James, for helping make the scenes with Story all the more realistic with your professional expertise, and please accept my apologies for anything I got wrong or fudged for the sake of the story.

  My friend Mike Hulsey asked that a “cool nurse” character be named for his wife, Juilie (proper spelling!) who is a real-life medical professional and a lovely lady. It also worked out in that it gave a minor character from Pilate’s Cross (Trooper Hulsey) a “cool nurse” wife.

  Special thanks to reader and backer Edward Buatois for his generosity; much appreciated, Edward!

  Many who invested in this book asked not to be publicly recogniz
ed, but I’d like to say thank you—you folks know who you are. Your generosity and kindness will not be forgotten. For a full list of people who would allow me to publicly thank them for their support, visit pilatescross.com/john-pilate-fan-community. Why not join the Facebook community, while you’re at it: facebook.com/John.Pilate.Mysteries/.

  My friend and collaborator Jason McIntyre did another fantastic book cover. Thanks, pal.

  Big thanks to my editor, Robert Hayes, who had no compunction about removing my gratuitous dashes and telling me that my writing is improving (finally?). Robert smoothed out the rough spots and added a little “oomph” to the story here and there. He’s a great editor and writers should hire him: docrocket@gmail.com.

  Thanks to my brother-in-law, Jeramiah Walker, APRN-CNP, for informally advising me on medical questions throughout the John Pilate series. As with James, I hope I didn’t screw up what you told me, my brother.

  A shout out to the folks at Wattpad for their continued support.

  Thanks to my fellow writers, especially Jason McIntyre (two mentions in one acknowledgement!) and Eden Baylee for your unflagging support and encouragement.

  My wife Stephanie deserves thanks for her excellent beta reading and support of my writing efforts. She also deserves a medal—or maybe a spa day—for patiently listening to me yak about my books at dinner.

  Hugs and kisses to my daughter Caroline, who patiently waited for her Daddy to finish writing “just a few more pages” so we could go play.

  Finally, thank you, reader, for keeping John Pilate alive.

  Your kind words, financial support (through sales and Kickstarter), online reviews and encouragement make it all worthwhile. I can’t say at this writing that there will be more adventures, but if there are, it will be because you demanded it. (Note from 2019…hard to believe I thought I would quit writing these stories!)

  Nevertheless, never say never. –Simon (Exactly!)